She replies with one word: Shit.
I shower and get dressed for work. I stare at the unopened envelope, the large P printed in gold ink, Alice’s name in an elegant script. I pick it up and hold it to the light, but I can’t see anything. I place it back on the table and walk to work, vowing not to think about it. Of course I think about it all day.
When I get home that evening, Alice is sitting at the table, looking at the package. “I guess we have to open it,” she says.
“Guess so.”
She breaks the seal and carefully pulls out the document. It’s just one page, divided into four sections. She reads each one aloud. Under the heading Rules is a paragraph about the yearly weigh-in. The footnote says that the paragraph is “excerpted from the most recent amendment appendix.” That would be the amendment appendix Vivian failed to include in our manuals.
The second section is “Infraction: You have exceeded the allowed weight gain by three pounds, six ounces.”
“It was the beers,” Alice groans. “The ones I drank right before the weigh-in. Also, it was a couple of days before my period. Women should be allowed a higher fluctuation than men. You’d think Orla would take that into consideration.”
The third section, Mitigating Circumstances, states, “It has come to our attention that your Handler may have omitted this appendix from your manual. This issue will be addressed separately.”
Alice looks up and grins. “Looks like Vivian may get a taste of her own medicine.”
“What else does it say?”
She reads on: “While the Rule must still be applied, due to the failure of the Handler to provide proper documentation, in addition to this being your first weight-related offense, you will be offered a Diversion Program.”
Then she falls silent, her eyes scanning the page.
When she puts the paper down, she’s close to tears.
“What the hell have they thought up this time?” I ask, worried. She’s very pale.
“No, it’s not the punishment. It’s—oh, Jake. I feel like this whole thing is a test, and I’ve failed.”
“Sweetheart.” I take her hand. “None of these rules are real. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I know,” she says, pulling her hand away. “But still, you have to admit that if I were to follow all of the rules, I’d be a better wife.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true. You’re perfect, exactly as you are.”
I pick up the document and read the fourth section, Punishment.
You have been assigned a daily workout regimen. You must report to the corner of Taraval and the Great Highway every morning at five, including weekends. Your trainer will be there waiting for you.
48
I wake abruptly from a deep sleep. I was in the middle of a nightmare, though I can’t recall the details. Alice is asleep. I pause for a moment to watch her. Her hair is a mess. In her Sex Pistols T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, she looks like the woman I first met.
The details of the dream come to me: the desperate kicking, the endless ocean stretching on for miles. A water dream. I’ve had them off and on for years, and I do what I always do when I awake from one of these dreams: wander down the hallway to the bathroom. Then I peer into the kitchen to check the time: 4:43 in the morning. Crap.
“Alice!” I yell. “It’s four forty-three!”
I hear her flop out of bed in a panic, two thuds as her feet hit the floor. “Holy shit! What happened to the alarm?”
“I’ll give you a ride. Get your workout clothes on. Fast.”
Panicked, I race around looking for the keys and my wallet. I throw on pants, hurry down to the garage, get the car started, pull out of the garage. Alice comes running out of the house, holding her shoes and sweatshirt. She jumps into the car and I take off down Thirty-eighth, then left at the Great Highway. I pull up onto the side of the road, right at the Taraval intersection. There’s a guy standing there. He’s thirty-five maybe, impeccable shape, stylish workout gear in Euro colors—army green and pale orange. Alice jumps out. I roll down the window to wish her luck, but she’s not even looking back.
“Four fifty-nine,” the guy says, looking at his watch. “Nice timing. I was starting to think you weren’t going to make it.”
“No way,” she says. “I’m here.” Within seconds of their introduction, he has her doing high kicks. I turn the car around and head home. Feeling too wired to go back to sleep, I sit down with my laptop.
At 6:17, Alice walks through the door, sweaty and exhausted. I offer to make her a smoothie. “No time,” she insists, “I’ve got to get to work.”
“How was it?”
“Sorry, I’m late; we’ll talk about it tonight.”
But that night we’re both beat. We eat takeout in front of the TV, watching Sloganeering. I mute the TV when a pharmaceutical commercial comes on, a forgettable florist smilingly greeting her forgettable husband. “How was the trainer?” I ask.
“His name’s Ron. Lives in the Castro. Nice guy, very gung ho. Lots of jump squats.” She reaches down to massage her calves. Sloganeering comes back on, and she nudges me to turn up the volume.
The next morning, the alarm goes off at four-thirty. I roll over to wake Alice, but she’s already up. I find her sitting on the couch, dressed in workout gear. She offers me a smile, but from the puffiness of her eyes and the look on her face I think she may have been crying. I fix her a quick cup of coffee. “Want a ride?”
“Yes.”
We walk down to the car in silence. On the six-minute ride to the beach, Alice falls asleep. I wake her when we get there. I see Ron jogging down Taraval toward us. It’s possible that he has run all the way here from the Castro.
The following morning, my alarm once again goes off at four-thirty. I sit up just in time to hear Alice pulling out of the garage.
The next morning, when the alarm wakes me, Alice is already gone.
49
My new clients, a couple from Cole Valley, smile as they walk through the door and sit side by side on the small sofa. Neither even seems to consider the big, comfy chair. Their marriage will survive; I know this already. Nonetheless, we’ll talk. We’ll probably meet three more times before they come to the same conclusion.
During our last meeting, I asked them to think about a good memory they have together. In response, the wife has brought pictures from their wedding. “You have to see the bridesmaids’ dresses,” Janice says. “I’m surprised my bridesmaids still talk to me.” I laugh when I see the photographs of Janice in a simple white dress, flanked on both sides by girls covered in green taffeta, and lots of it.
“Did you know that bridesmaids’ dresses were traditionally white?” I say.
“How could anyone tell the bridesmaids from the bride?” Ethan asks.